


Coming In (On a Wing)

by Renne



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, First Time, M/M, Military, WWII
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-16
Updated: 2011-05-16
Packaged: 2017-10-19 11:31:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Arthur and Eames are RAF pilots in North Africa during 1942 and Eames realises that everything he thought about Arthur was wrong, or: The Tale of Eames: Ace of the Desert, Man of Derring-do and Mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming In (On a Wing)

**Author's Note:**

> Also posted on LJ [here](http://futureperfect.livejournal.com/871516.html).

The Kittyhawk slaloms as he makes his approach, a crosswind kicking up across the landing strip, sending a thick plume of dust skyward. He's coming in too fast; he knows it without a doubt, but there's bugger all he can do about it, not with the damage the craft has sustained. It takes everything he has to hold it steady as the ground rushes up to meet him. He's never been forced into the indignity of a belly land before, but the landing gear is completely shot, so it isn't like he has much of a choice. Shutting down the powerful Allison engine, he checks his harness and braces himself.

The impact is both better and worse than he'd expected.

Better, because even though the undercarriage of the Kittyhawk crumples, the plane doesn't kite sideways and the wing doesn't dig into the desert floor, and he doesn't flip upside down and cart-wheel across the desert. It's worse though, because the Kittyhawk bounces, it fucking _bounces_ before hitting the ground again and it's the second impact that causes the crate to break up around him.

Eames braces himself the best he can as the Kittyhawk slides across the landing strip, kicking up a cloud of dust. He's ready for the flip, for the explosion, for anything, but... instead the plane grinds to a pained halt on the gravel. The only sound is the wind, the tink-tink of cooling metal and the rush of blood in his ears.

Even with the heavy armouring, the amount of damage his Kittyhawk suffered even before it hit the ground made it amazing that the thing could still fly. It's a plane that can take a right beating, this is true, but his wings are mere tatters, the fuselage heavily pocked with bullet and shell holes.

Eames can feel the liquid pooling in his boot and since he hasn't pissed himself there's only one other thing it could be: blood--from shrapnel or a bullet, he won't know until he can get out of the damn plane. Which he will do as soon as he gets this blasted canopy open. He swipes at the blood running down his face, squinting out through the cracked perspex.

His hands shake as he disconnects his oxygen and radio, and as Eames fumbles with his Sutton harness and the canopy, it's only then that he notices the pain in his arm and his side as he tries to reach up and push back the hood. Somehow he manages to pull himself out of the plane, falling heavily on the ground as his injured leg buckles beneath him.

"Eames! _Eames_!" he hears Yusuf, his personal mechanic, shout as he runs down the runway towards the downed plane. Yusuf skids to a halt next to him, getting his shoulders under Eames' arm and hauling him to his feet. "Come on," he says, panting. "You have destroyed yet another perfectly good plane, and now you need to _move_ before all this," and he waves his hand, "ends in fire. Lots and lots of fire."

"It's not gonna blow now if it hasn't already." Eames flicks a wild grin at him. "Did you see? Came in and the angle was too steep. I _bounced_ it, I can't believe I bounced it. The boys are going to laugh."

Grimacing, Yusuf hefts Eames a little straighter. "Yeah... I am sure they will," and his tone doesn't sound like it's something Eames should be so pumped about. Two of the medical team stationed at LG 122 jog down the runway towards them, bearing a stretcher. Yusuf nods at the lead medic. "Come on, get on and we will get you to the doc."

"Oh, I think I can walk," Eames says, swaying. "My leg isn't that bad."

"Sir," one of the medics says. Eames swipes the blood out of his eyes and squints at him. "I'm a little concerned with your blood loss and that leg wound--"

Eames opens his mouth to protest that he's just fine, honest, he just needs a little bit of a breather and then he'd be well on his way, when his leg buckles again and he tightens his grip around Yusuf's shoulders.

"Damage that leg too much more and you will be out of a plane even longer," Yusuf reminds him casually. "Then Flight _Lef_ tenant Arthur will steal your record." The emphasis on Arthur's rank is no accident.

Eames' mouth snaps shut. Typical Yusuf, always reminding him of the very real threat of the wing's resident Yank stealing his glory, as well as his inferior rank. He knows Eames well, knows what buttons to push with his smartarse remarks delivered in the driest tone, knowing where to get his digs in. " _Might_ steal my record," Eames corrects shortly and allows Yusuf to help him onto the stretcher. At least the rank thing shouldn't be an issue soon; he's already gotten unofficial word of his promotion to Flight Lieutenant, but the thought of Arthur exceeding his combat victories is almost more than he can stomach.

Yusuf pats his shoulder and the medics cart Eames off to the medical tent.

Eames stares off into the distance. It's a quiet moment during another glorious sunset in the desert, vibrant reds and oranges and yellows streaking the horizon, shading up into dark purples and blues. But he doesn't see it this time any more than he has fifty, a hundred times before. In his head he's reliving the last sortie, the attack that had seen his Kittyhawk crippled and then crash-landed. Someone had sung out, "Bandits, 2 o'clock high," and they'd come out of the sun, well placed with their altitude and the confusion their sudden appearance caused to wreak havoc on the squadron.

As always, Eames had been the last to run, the last to turn for home, and it had cost him dearly. Instead of fleeing with the tatters of his formation, he'd tried to get in one last burst on a crippled Me-109 limping away, the leading edge of one wing shredded. He'd pulled his Kittyhawk into a screaming turn to follow, but a quick glance over his shoulder had shown one more 109 on his tail. It had come in on him fast and he'd hauled up into a tight loop, but the damage to his Kittyhawk's tail from a lucky strike earlier in the dogfight didn't let him pull into as tight a turn as he'd needed to evade the 109 and it had stuck to him like glue.

Distracted, Eames didn't see the MC-202 until it was too late. Contemplating the bandage around his arm, he feels a sudden, if unnatural, surge of pessimism. He shouldn't even be here. He'd made a stupid, arrogant mistake in thinking he could get in one last shot, take down one last enemy, without any support himself. He's a risk taker; he knows it, they all know it. But he's junked a plane and nearly himself with nothing to add to his tally and he can't help blaming himself.

They need every crate they have, particularly now that they've been pushed into retreat again (their COs are still in conference, but Eames knows just as all of them know that their foothold here at Sidi Haneish is about to be let go; No. 239 Wing will pull back again, and how far no one will know until the briefing). Eames knows that it's life, it's the push and pull of battle, but he always takes their withdrawals personally: if only he had shot down more planes, relieved the pressure on the ground forces, if only he'd been more accurate with his bombing, if only he'd destroyed more tanks.

Just when he thinks his mood couldn't sour any further, like a bad penny, Arthur turns up. He drags an empty supply crate over next to the one Eames sits on, leant back against the wall of the mess hall with his wounded leg stretched out in front.

"How're you doing?" Arthur asks. Eames has to hand it to him; it almost sounds like he cares.

"Well," Eames says, offering his packet of cigarettes to Arthur, who declines, "considering how full I am of shrapnel from knee to scalp, I'm just brilliant." The words come out as cranky as he feels and Arthur actually has the gall to look upset. Which, come on. Eames knows the Yank doesn't give a shit. He's probably glad Eames is going to be put on a plane and sent to Cairo in the morning for another go around with the doctors at the Scottish General Hospital.

He's musing when he continues, saying, "I wonder how much of this crap in me is from when I hit the ground?" It had only been when Yusuf gave him a full run down of the number of bullet and shell holes and the damage to the cockpit that Eames realised his injuries weren't entirely thanks to shrapnel and ricochets. "Maybe I should have hit the silks."

"Respectfully, I have to say that's a stupid thing to think." Arthur looks up at Eames from his hands. He's cleaning the dirt out from under his fingernails with a pocket knife. "If you'd taken to your chute over Mersa Matruh then the boys would be out there looking for you as well as No. 3's SL. That's if you weren't already captured or killed. As it is you've only got a few shrapnel wounds and your bird, though little more than a pile of scrap, is _our_ pile of scrap that we can still raid for parts, instead of a flaming lump of metal in the middle of fucking nowhere."

Despite himself, Eames huffs a laugh; he can still feel the last of the reckless adrenaline from his crash-landing sing in his blood. "If I was out there you'd be given free rein to annihilate my record."

"'Course I would." Arthur grins suddenly, a flash of white teeth against sunbaked skin. Eames catches a flash of dimples before Arthur's smile fades and realises it's the first time he's ever seen the Yank really smile. He's surprised to find he really likes it. "But it's better this way. Better you here with us, than still out there like Nicky."

Eames raises a brow at that. "Careful, Arthur," he says, "you say things like that and I might start to think you care."

But the reminder of Nicky's fate sobers Eames right up. He'd met Nicky in Khartoum, both of them destined for the No. 239 Wing, though as RAF and RAAF in different squadrons. He'd gotten to know the man well, however, both as a pilot and as a friend. Never mind that he's in a different squadron it chafes that Eames' injuries mean he can't be out there with the reconnaissance patrol looking for Nicky, too. And as much as it hurts, he doesn't want to hope that the patrol will find him; he remembers the turns No. 3 Squadron had taken looking for Bobby, the hollow eyes of the pilots who returned with no information. Eventually they'd received news from RAF headquarters that Bobby was safe, but Eames wasn't so sure Nicky could be as lucky: Mersa Matruh was well behind enemy lines.

Arthur gives him a searching look, like he's about to say something, before changing his mind. He shakes his head.

It reminds Eames of back in December when news had come through of the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbour. Even though no one would ever have admitted to it, he got the feeling that he wasn't the only one feeling a tinge of relief with their sadness; not that people had died, of course not, but that the Japanese offensive against American soil meant the Yanks would be entering the war wholesale--not just the few scattered through the British, Commonwealth and Allied forces--and with it the balance of victories might finally swing in the Allies' favour.

He remembers seeing Arthur in the aftermath of the news; the thousand-yard stare he'd come to recognise, somehow, as Arthur bottling up everything he was feeling. They'd had a conversation, kind of--if monosyllabic answers could be classed as a conversation--before Arthur had given him a look just like this one, hesitating on the edge of saying more before turning on his heel. Eames remembers being half-drunk, following Arthur out past the limits of the tents and not knowing why even as a _khamsin_ was blowing in, goading him into a fight until Arthur broke down weeping in the sand. He remembers the next day, the bruise on his chin and explaining to Clive that he'd gotten turned around in the _khamsin_ and tripped returning to his tent and Clive had merely raised a brow, ran his finger over his moustache and nodded.

(Eames remembers spitting blood and dropping to his knees, wrapping his arms around Arthur's shaking shoulders and he remembers Arthur leaning into him even as the wind whipped the sand up around them, his face pressed to Eames' throat and thin fingers grasping the front of his shirt.)

The next morning Arthur looked at as if nothing had happened; twelve Tomahawks from Squadron 112 and 3 were taken out for a sweep over Tobruk and El Adem, where they'd been jumped by a flight of enemy planes--Me-110s, Me-109s and two Fiat G50s--deep in Rommel's territory. Eames had seen immediately that Arthur wasn't flying as he normally did. He wasn't a flashy flier like some of the boys in the squadron and nor did he have Eames' touch with Lady Luck, but he was technically brilliant and his consistency gave him the ability to match Eames kill for kill. But this day he'd thrown himself into the melee with all the reckless abandon of someone who had nothing to lose.

And even as he'd thrown his Tomahawk into a tight turn when he saw the two 109s on Arthur's tail he'd been able to do nothing but watch, helpless as they'd blown Arthur out of the sky. No amount of technical brilliance or consistency could stop German ace Erhard Braune when he was on the scent and Eames gritted his teeth as Arthur's plane dived towards the ground, streaming smoke and flames.

Then, unbelievably, he saw the canopy pop off and the tiny figure shoot out of the cockpit and he let out the heavy breath he didn't realise he was holding.

Arthur was low to the ground when he pulled his chute, silk billowing up and without even a second thought Eames swung around into a wide circle, momentarily allowing himself to be distracted by a G50, which he clipped across the wing with a burst from his cannons--not enough to bring it down, but enough to get it off Bobby's tail--before dropping altitude quickly.

The scrubby, rough desert floor was no airstrip, and the landing rattled his teeth, but he managed to neatly pull up not far from the parachute silk that Arthur was madly gathering up.

Eames slid back the perspex. "Come on, get in," he shouted.

Arthur's head whipped around like he hadn't even noticed Eames landing, heard the roar of his engine, the crash of his landing gear against the roughness of the desert. He has a cut over his eye streaming blood. "Arthur, come _on_!"

Struggling out of his harness, Eames boosted himself out of the cockpit, dropping lightly to the ground. Arthur stared at him. "Here, Arthur, come on," Eames shouted as he reached out and unbuckled Arthur's parachute himself before dragging Arthur towards his Tomahawk. The wing above was keeping the Germans well occupied, but at any minute now someone was going to spot his Tomahawk next to Arthur's wreck and come in for a strafing run.

Eames knew what Clive could do to ground forces and landed planes on a strafing run; he didn't want that to happen to him too.

The two of them wouldn't fit in the cockpit as it was, but once Eames had tossed his parachute--if they got shot down it wasn't going to be a lick of use anyway--with Arthur in his lap, they could close the canopy and get airborne again. Arthur had to fly the plane back to the LG and this time there was none of the recklessness that had characterised his flying prior to being shot down.

Eames collected a Distinguished Flying Cross for the rescue and as if that was the kick in the pants Arthur had needed, from that point the competition between them was on. Oh, nothing had ever been _said_ about it, but Eames watched Arthur, watched the way he flew, watched his total on the tally board creep higher with every action, watched his tally of damaged and destroyed close in on Eames' numbers.

He's brought back to the present by the unexpected touch of Arthur's hand on his shoulder. He starts and then laughs, feeling foolish. Arthur's hand is warm through the scrubbed thin cotton of his shirt. "Killer said to tell you to get some rest, he wants you to take Dickie's captured Messerschmitt to Cairo first thing and get yourself to the hospital." There's something distinctly-- _oddly_ \--playful in his smile when he says, "Don't worry, they've repainted her in RAF colours, you won't get shot up again." He squeezes Eames' shoulder and stands, pushing the crate he'd been using as a seat up out of the way against the wall with the toe of his boot, before heading back inside.

Feeling strangely bewildered by the whole situation, Eames watches him go.

-

It's overwhelming to be in Cairo, knowing that his squadron is in full retreat only a stone's throw away.

Eames has spent so much time now, it seems, with only the rapidly dwindling numbers in No. 239 Wing for company, that to be in a place where the stink of humanity is rich in his nose is almost too much. It's ironic, given that they'd all spent so much time longing to be away from the Libyan desert, that Eames should be almost pining for it now.

Even the bustle of the busy Scottish General Hospital (and the tender ministrations of the lovely nurses) hadn't quite prepared him for the press of people and the enclosed feeling being on the street gave him. On an intellectual level he knows that the streets of wartime Cairo wouldn't be a patch on what it would have been like only a handful of years before, but after the wide open spaces of the desert and the sky above, after seeing the same faces week after week, month after month, it feels like too much.

As soon as it's permitted, he moves from the hospital and into a room at the Shepheard's Hotel.

And that's where Eames wakes, head stuffy with the after-effects of drink, his mouth tasting foul. He blinks blearily. There's something wrong with his pillow; a pillow shouldn't have a heartbeat. He props himself up on his good arm, wincing a little as the movement pulls his side.

He doesn't remember taking someone to bed, but here they are, all smooth skin and lithe limbs sprawled in his bed. The light filtering through the shutters isn't sufficient for him to identify if this person is male or female, but when he runs his hand up their back they let out a distinctly masculine grumble from under the pillow.

Eames grins as his mystery man flails at the pillow and then his grin drops suddenly away and he back pedals across the bed as the man raises his face.

"Arthur!" he yelps.

Arthur squints at him in the half-light. "Yes?" he says, like it's perfectly natural to be in Eames' bed, and in Cairo of all places.

"You--what--you--!" Eames points accusingly, well aware on some level that he sounds completely unhinged and utterly incapable of doing anything about it. "You're naked!"

Arthur purses his lips a moment, smothering a smile before he flips the sheet. "Technically, no," he says. He's wearing a pair of undershorts. Eames is momentarily distracted by the trail of hair leading down from Arthur's belly button before--

" _I'm_ naked!" he says, aghast, and this time Arthur doesn't even try to hide his smile. (Again Eames can't help but notice Arthur's dimples, shadows in the paler oval of his face, just as he can't help but notice the elegance of his hand as he brushes his hair from his face or the itch in his hands to touch all that bared skin again.)

"I'll give you that," Arthur concedes.

"What are you even doing here?" Eames complains. He doesn't want to be noticing things about Arthur, or wanting to touch him.

" _Here_ or here as in 'Cairo' here?" Arthur makes an encompassing gesture.

"Well, obviously I get that you're here," and Eames mimics Arthur gesture, "because they cut you loose for 48 hours leave, but as for being _here_ , I'm not so sure about that..."

Arthur laughs softly. It's... it's very sexy. Eames is not at all sure how he feels about that. "You don't remember?"

Eames racks his brains, trying to track his memories from what he last remembers clearly. Thanks to the dull pain courtesy of the Luftwaffe and the sharp pain courtesy of yeast and hops, thinking isn't the easiest thing to do. He remembers being in the downstairs bar, The Dungeon, sitting with a couple of Free French officers and Cobb, an American businessman who'd refused to be evacuated back to America because of his passion for the beautiful French songbird on the stage. She wore a long, low-cut blue velvet dress and was singing a haunting rendition of _J'attendrai_. It brought a tear to the eye.

Eames tries to remember Arthur there, but comes up blank, and assumes he must have arrived some time after Eames' sixth or seventh beer.

"You don't remember, do you?"

"Perhaps you could jog my memory?"

"Perhaps you could stop looking like you're either about to fall off the bed or jump out the window, first?" Arthur suggests. "We really can't afford you to hurt yourself further. The boys miss you. The squadron misses you. We need you--"

"Okay! Okay," Eames says hastily before Arthur can say something else like ' _I_ need you,' which is something Eames really doesn't need with a mostly naked Arthur (still) inexplicably in his bed. He inches forward so he's no longer propped precariously on the edge of the bed. "Yes," he says, then: "No. I--I don't remember."

"You were down in the Dungeon with Dom Cobb and a couple of his Free French buddies. He was making eyes at Mal--"

"So... business as usual, then?" He's rewarded with another flash of dimples. It warms him and he hates himself just a little more for it.

"Mm. You'd had eight or twelve beers by then--"

"'Eight or twelve'? Arthur, that's not very specific."

"There were a lot of bottles on the table. I don't _think_ they were all yours but I could be wrong."

But it would easily explain why Eames has no memory of Arthur's arrival, and a splitting hangover to boot. "Go on," he murmurs.

"You'd left your stick up here--"

And he had; just because he was wounded in the leg in heroic aerial combat against the Luftwaffe didn't mean that he needed to cart a stick or crutch around. He was still mostly ambulatory. Even if the doctor at the Scottish General Hospital had insisted that he not go anywhere without it for the five days he's got in Cairo before his next doctor's visit (and hopefully a clean enough bill of health to get back into the fight).

"--and by the time you called it quits you couldn't have stood on your own two even if both of them were intact."

"...So you helped me to bed."

"So I helped you to bed," Arthur agrees placidly.

"There wasn't any... funny business?"

Arthur gives him a steady look. "There was no funny business. Cross my heart." And he does.

Eames studies Arthur's face, wishing his head didn't hurt too much to get up and prop a shutter open to let in more light. He wants to see Arthur clearer. "Why are you even here, Arthur? You hate me," he says eventually.

"I don't hate you--"

"You've _always_ hated me."

"I've never hated you."

Eames glowers at him. He's excellent at reading people and he refuses to believe that all this time he's managed to get Arthur completely wrong.

"Eames," Arthur continues patiently, "do you think I'd be here if I hated you?"

Okay, this is true. He _doesn't_ think Arthur would be here if he hated him, much less clearly having spent the night (in a perfectly innocent capacity, although Eames doesn't remember a moment of it, up to and including taking his clothes off, so who knows, right?). Arthur must be able to see that in his face because he reaches out and touches Eames' arm. "Come on," Arthur says, sliding out of the bed. He's all long lines and pale skin in the gloom as he reaches for his clothes.

Gingerly, between his aching head and his aching wounds, Eames follows his lead. He finds his uniform draped over the back of a chair by the door.

"You should bring your stick," Arthur says. It's not phrased as an order but Eames doesn't think of it as anything less. He brings his stick.

It's not until five minutes later, when they're standing out the front of Shepheard's Hotel, that he realises taking orders this easily from Arthur is setting an unhealthy precedent. (Not that this will carry over to their flying--Eames is an independent flyer, but he's also disciplined; if he needs to take orders from someone he will.)

"What now?" Arthur says.

"Hmm?"

"I took my last leave in Alexandria, not Cairo. You've been here before--what now?"

Eames rubs his mouth. He doesn't know what Arthur's into, but he has a few items on his list to tick off. "I know where we can find some friendly ladies?"

Arthur turns and gives him a look, one brow arched. Eames spreads his hands, and feeling like he's taking a chance, he says, "Friendly... uh, friendly men, then? If--if that's more your thing?" He's perfectly prepared for Arthur to snot him one right on the nose for even implying that he might be 'one of the boys' (which Eames has no problem with at all, because he is, on occasion, rather emphatically _one of the boys_ ), but it's worth an ask.

The look Arthur gives him now is much the same as the previous, except now with a hint of speculation, and Eames straightens a little. What is--what was that look? he wonders. Speculation for _what_?

"Let's not," Arthur says, pursing his lips a moment, before flicking Eames a half-smile. "Let's go get breakfast instead. You can tell me some more about how you think I hate you."

Eames chooses to ignore that, jerking his thumb over his shoulder back at the hotel. "We should've gone to Joe's Bar for breakfast," he says. "Joe makes a brilliant drink for breakfast, lunch or dinner. Called the Suffering Bastard." He touches his temple. "Excellent for the day after a big night."

Arthur grins with a flash of dimples. Precious. "Perfect for you, then?"

"It... wasn't that big a night."

"Oh really?" The sarcasm is just perfect and Eames finds himself liking Arthur more and more.

Eames wiggles his hand. It was a so-so night. "You just wait until this war is over, Arthur, I'll take you out with me in London and show you what a _real_ big night looks like."

He's delighted when Arthur laughs and says archly, "I'm sorry, are Mussolini and Hitler getting in the way of your drinking?"

They pile into a car with an Australian and a South African and head downtown to Midan Taalat Haab, the square packed with Allied soldiers on leave. There's something gratifying about how Arthur looks almost as uncomfortable as Eames had felt amidst the bustle of the crowd and by the racket of so many competing voices. For a brief, sharp moment Eames longs again for the wide open spaces and the loneliness of the sky, the sand and the scrub and the rock spreading out below.

He throws Arthur a sympathetic look and Arthur's mouth crooks to the side. "There's just a lot of people, okay?" he says defensively. Eames recognises the hint of irritation in his tone that used to get his hackles up all the time--god, was it really only days ago?--but now, with the revelation that there's not actual antagonism behind it, it doesn't rile Eames at all.

"It's okay," Eames says in a conversational tone, reaching out and squeezing Arthur's shoulder. "You should have seen me when I got out of the hospital a couple of days back. Even just Shepheard's was too much for me--you'd think after the hospital I'd be okay with it, but--" And he shrugs. "There's just _so many_ people."

The crook of Arthur's mouth twitches and he almost smiles. It could be the shift of the way they walk, and the way Eames' step is irregular because of his stick, but Eames could almost swear Arthur leant into his touch. It's fleeting though, and then they take a step and Eames isn't even sure it happened. He lets his hand slip away from Arthur's shoulder.

Eames takes Arthur to a tea room called Groppi's which, even at this hour of the morning, is doing a bustling trade. There are a few empty seats on the garden terrace and Eames sinks into one with a relieved groan. Not so much to take the weight off his leg, but because between it and the pounding of his hangover, he's feeling less than perky.

"Apart from the uniforms and the conversations, one could almost forget there was a war going on," Arthur says, leaning back in his chair. He cradles a steaming cup of coffee between his palms almost reverently. Eames, of course, has tea.

"How did you get into flying for the RAF?" Eames asks.

"Right place at the right time," Arthur says. He leans back in his chair. "The Nazis invaded Poland, Chamberlain declared war, and I told myself that even if my people were going to try and sit out another European conflict I wasn't going to. I'd been living in London for four years, flying for three. Then things looked like they were going downhill with Hitler, so I got my citizenship, joined the RAF, the Nazis invaded Poland and here we are." He spreads his hands. "Nothing special."

Eames raises a brow. Arthur mightn't think it anything special but it impressed Eames enough. He's not so sure he would've done the same had he been living in America when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbour. He knows for sure he wouldn't have legged it back to Old Blighty when war was declared. God, he was only in this war as a pilot because the alternative was untenable.

"What?" Arthur says. "It is nothing special. Anyway, what about you? You fly like you were born to it, but that's not what they wanted you for, is it?" The delicate emphasis on 'they' and the arched brow puts Eames on his guard. Arthur must sense his wariness, because he leans forward. "It's okay. Flying isn't what they wanted me for either."

"Oh?" Eames forces his tone to neutral and non-committal.

Arthur hums. "Bletchley Park."

Eames sits back in his seat, mind racing. Bletchley Park meant Intelligence with Section D, then. Eames himself had a range of skills that could--perhaps _should_ \--have been put to good use on either side of the channel, but as it was the only skill he knew people in high places knew about for sure was his abilities with forgery.

Unwilling to tie himself to an official government agency like that, he'd forged himself the required paperwork for his enlistment in the RAF. By the time the Special Operations Executive--who would have had more of a use for his skills--had gotten off the ground he'd proved his mettle as an experienced fighter pilot and then the Battle of Britain and its losses happened and that, thankfully, was that.

The thought that he could have been still working with Arthur had they both made different choices in the war makes him feel happier than he has any right to feel.

Arthur's watching him over the edge of his cup, eyes crinkling with amusement. "War or not," he says in a delicate tone, "my contacts wouldn't have been comfortable with me taking... such an above-board position with the government." Then he doesn't even pretend to hide his smile, sly and handsome as he leans forward, presses his fingers to the back of Eames' wrist, just below his cuff. "Perhaps after this war is done we might consider pooling our resources?"

It's the second time that day that one of them has mentioned after the war, and the hair on Eames' neck prickles. It prickles more when he realises he's not even concerned about what Arthur might know about his clandestine activities, like the revelation of his less than legal contacts has rendered the point moot. He focuses instead of the touch of Arthur's fingers against his skin, sliding over the back of his hand as Arthur sits back in his chair.

"Mm," Eames eventually says noncommittally, rubbing at the back of his neck. Arthur's smile doesn't shift an instant, instead it broadens until again Eames can see a flash of dimples. Then he's distracted by someone accidentally nudging his chair; it turns out to be Dixie from No. 3 Sqn, his arm in a cast and a sling. "Hey, fellas, they said I might find you here."

"Hey Dix," Arthur says, leaning over and pulling out a chair, "take a seat."

"Cheers," Dixie says, sitting gingerly. There's a bandage down the side of his face.

"You look rough," Eames says sympathetically, tucking his stick out of the way of Dixie's legs. "You miss sticking a landing again?"

Dixie huffs a soft laugh. "You'd just love that, wouldn't you, after the way you smeared your Kitty. Nah," he says, "We were pushing forward back to LG 75 and my bird was shot out from under me by a G50." He makes a moue of annoyance. "Bloody Italians. I bailed out and was lucky enough to get picked up by some Arabs before Rommel's Panzers rolled in. Listen, Eames," his tone drops to seriousness and he leans forward, head turned just so, so he can look Eames straight in the eyes with his good eye. "I dunno if you've heard, but Nicky--well... he hasn't returned yet. You know they posted him as missing just after you flew out?"

Eames nods. He'd known that much before he left that morning; it was as he expected, anyone who didn't come home with the rest of the wing was posted as missing sooner rather than later (for a heartbeat he remembers when Arthur had been on that list, his gaze flicking to Arthur's face and then away). "I heard Reg found his harness."

Dixie nods. "Yeah, and the boys said the site was crawling with Germans. If he bailed, and they just found the harness, it's a good sign, right?" The need for reassurance in his eyes is almost pitiful.

"I--of course." Eames manages to say it soothingly, even though he knows it doesn't mean anything. There's the nudge of an ankle against his under the table, a comforting touch and again he glances to Arthur, who watches him with soft eyes. It feels strange for a moment to take his own reassurance from Arthur of all people. "Look, Dix," Eames says, leaning forward and patting the man on the shoulder. "He's got a great record, if there's anyone who could get out of it, it's him. I'm sure he's okay." He grins suddenly. "Take it from me: if Nicky has been captured it's guaranteed he'll give Jerry just as much hell on the ground as he did in the air."

Which, Eames likes to think, is how he'd act were he ever unlucky enough to be captured by the Germans.

It's afternoon when they return to Shepheard's Hotel and they pause in the foyer, Eames leaning on his stick, his leg aching from the walk. "Do you have a room yet?" he asks; surely if Arthur did have one he wouldn't have stayed in Eames' room last night. Eames had been ridiculously drunk, but not stupidly so--it wasn't like Arthur had been there to prevent him from choking on his vomit.

Arthur gives him a look. It reminds Eames of the arch, speculative look Arthur had given him when Eames proposed a detour to a brothel. He suddenly feels warm, heat washing up his neck and cheeks. "What?" he says and smiles. It's easy to smile with Arthur. He doesn't know why he could have ever thought that it wasn't. He can't fathom how he even used to dislike this man. "Why are you looking at me like that?" Like... like he wants to do things to Eames that no gentleman should want to do, looking at Eames all hot, dark eyes and wet, parted lips. Eames inhales sharply and before he can even think he's pushing forward, fumbling with his stick.

"We should--" he says, but Arthur's there already--perhaps he's always been there--fingers grasping at his sleeve with a subtle tug. Arthur turns on his heel and Eames follows, helpless, drawn like there's a thread connecting them. He's not as quick on his feet with the stick, with his injuries, as he would be on a good day and when he rounds the corner Arthur is on him, pushing him back and into a protected nook where--for a brief moment--they are completely out of sight.

"You're not very quick sometimes," Arthur murmurs against his throat, "for someone who's an ace pilot." He pushes forward with his hips, his thigh nudging up between Eames'.

"Arthur--" Eames grabs at Arthur's hips, pulling him closer. He can feel Arthur's cock through the material of their trousers; Arthur's half-hard against him, needy in the way he rocks his hips forward. Arthur's lips graze against his skin (and it shouldn't be a shock but it is, like lightning down his spine and his hands tighten on Arthur's hips). "Let's get back to my room," he finally manages to say, his voice an unnaturally deep rasp to his ears.

He doesn't remember the walk back to his room, hyperaware of Arthur at his side, of his hand around Eames' arm. To anyone else it may have looked like an RAF officer assisting his injured fellow with a solicitous hand, but if anything, the hand Arthur has on his arm is to keep him steady at pace and urge him on as he limps up the stairs.

Then they're in Eames' room, the door shut firmly behind and Arthur is on Eames hungrily, crowding him back and down onto the bed and Eames goes willingly.

The shutters have been pulled open and sunlight pours into the room, warming the bed where he sprawls, warming Arthur's skin under his hands as he undoes the buttons on Arthur's shirt with nimble fingers, pushing it from his shoulders even as Arthur mirrors his movements. If there's a hint of desperation to their moves it's unavoidable; skin on skin and they're both aware of their mortality as Eames hisses softly at the pull of stitches and Arthur soothes him with a hand as he slides downwards.

"You are so frustrating," Arthur mutters into the rise and fall of Eames' ribcage as Eames runs his hands over Arthur's shoulders, down his back, feeling the shift of muscle beneath fingers. He laughs, about to speak when Arthur continues. "Of all the dense, obstinate men," Arthur says into the curve of Eames' side, damp lips against skin. "I had to pick the one who couldn't see what was in front of his own face," is trailed over the jut of his hip bone. "Who practically needed a _written invitation_ ," is licked into the crease of his thigh. "Before I could get him into bed." He flicks a glance up at Eames' face (eyes brightened by the sun on his face) before lowering his head and taking Eames' cock into his mouth.

Even though Eames _knew_ he was going to do that, it's still like electric shock to Eames' system, the wet heat of Arthur’s lips around him and the drag of Arthur's tongue over the head of his cock. He inhales sharply, tries to refrain from pushing up into Arthur's mouth.

Arthur doesn't suck cock like he was born to it. He doesn't suck cock like he's experienced either. But for all he lacks in technique, he's enthusiastic about it, and that's everything Eames appreciates about getting his dick sucked. It's wet and obscene and the way Arthur worms a hand between his own legs because he's getting off on doing this makes Eames whine, "Bloody hell, Arthur," as he curls his fingers through Arthur's hair.

Somehow, when Arthur peers up at Eames (eyes almost black with lust), Eames manages to say, "Save something for me, eh?"

Eames mourns the loss of Arthur's mouth on his cock as Arthur sits up, his mouth shiny and wet. There's an ointment sitting by the bed that the doctor gave Eames for his wounds, and he really doesn't think it should be put to the use he can see burning hot in Arthur's eyes when Arthur reaches for it. He doesn't do anything immediately, though, just curls into Eames (and Eames hisses at the drag of his spit-wet cock against Arthur's skin, desperately aroused).

"We could have been doing this a long time ago," Arthur murmurs into Eames' throat, teeth sharp against Eames' skin in a way that makes his hips jerk.

"We _should_ have been," Eames corrects as Arthur straightens up. Eames slides his hands over sweat-slick skin to grip Arthur's hips, biting back a rough groan as Arthur reaches back and fingers himself. From this angle he can see Arthur's ointment-slick fingers sliding into his body, the way he pushes down against them. "Oh Christ, Arthur, that's hot."

Arthur grins down at him, sharp and bright before he flings his head back and deliberately lets out a low needy groan, pushing right down on his fingers, three of them now, buried deep in his body where Eames wants his cock to be.

Finally Eames can't stand it anymore. He shifts and flips them until Arthur's on his back, settling between Arthur's thighs and guiding himself into Arthur who arches and opens under him, moaning like Eames is giving him all he's ever wanted. His fingers bite into Eames' arse as Eames buries himself in Arthur's body, face pressed in against his neck, panting.

Arthur is perfect underneath and around him, burning hot where skin touches skin, wet with sweat. Eames tangles his fingers tightly through Arthur's damp hair and they kiss, Arthur catching Eames' bottom lip between sharp teeth with a delicate tingle of pain as Eames slowly rocks into him. "C'mon, c'mon," Arthur mutters into his mouth. "Fuck me, I want you to fuck me, Eames..."

And Eames does. He braces himself just so, so most of his weight is on his good leg and fucks him, hard and deep and mindless even as Arthur urges him on, more, _more_ , harder, Eames, _harder_. Eames somehow manages to get his hand between their bodies, wraps his fingers around Arthur’s cock and jerks him once, twice and then he's coming wet all over Eames' fingers, the spasms of the tight heat of his body around Eames' cock enough to push Eames over the edge after. His vision whites out as he comes hard, Arthur's name broken on his lips.

-

Once Eames returns to No. 239 Wing from Cairo there's little time for sleep, much less sneaking personal time with a fellow pilot. As Rommel's Afrika Korps pushes strongly towards El Alamein, they fly sortie after sortie supporting SAAF and RAF bomber squadrons. Eames and Arthur barely meet in the mess hall and when they do, Eames' skin prickles from the intensity of Arthur's gaze on him and he presses his ankle to Arthur's under the table.

They meet in the shadows of the tents, pressing together with desperate hands and mouths, barely able to snatch together these hurried moments as the war rolls on. "How are we even...?" Eames murmurs against Arthur's dusty neck, one hand pressed under Arthur's shirt in the sweat damp small of his back, the other down the front of his trousers, jerking him quickly, without any finesse.

Arthur ruts against Eames' hand, his own fingers tangled in Eames' hair as he drags Eames' mouth back to his. "Less talk," he says, breathless, and for a moment they freeze at the sound of a single engine fighter plane screaming in overhead.

"Hurricane," Eames says.

"One of ours." And then Arthur's groaning as Eames slicks one thumb across Arthur's lips and the other across the head of Arthur's cock.

The next day they're escorting Baltimore bombers over Rommel's supply lines when they're hit by a full complement of Messerschmitts and Junkers. It's carnage. No. 122 Squadron loses three pilots and four planes that day, and it's not until Eames gets back to base that he realises one of the downed Kittyhawks is Arthur’s.

It’s then, as his stomach roils and he dry retches (doubled over, hands braced on his knees), that he realises he's come to care too much about Arthur. It's then, as he nearly weeps with relief when Arthur's picked up walking back to the landing ground by a British patrol, that he realises they have to stop.

He avoids Arthur as much as he can over the next day (doesn't miss the narrowed gaze, or the pensive looks); then they're scheduled to fly again and preparation takes over. "Here," Yusuf says from where he stands on Eames' wing, passing him a scrap of silk. "You forgot this." Eames knots the silk scarf around his throat, inside the collar of his shirt. It's his lucky scarf, and he has no idea how he even forgot to bring it with him. It's not that he's superstitious, not really. It's just that he's never flown a successful sortie without it.

He touches the silk (rich, dark blue) and exhales slowly. Okay, maybe he is a little superstitious.

As Yusuf slides off the wing Eames sees Arthur approaching and feels a sudden stab of anger. He doesn't want to talk to Arthur right now where he can't be in control. Trust Arthur to come after him when his only escape route would be _flying off into the sky_.

Arthur is all lithe and smooth as he pulls himself up onto the wing, right where Yusuf had sat. It reminds Eames of the way Arthur had moved over him that last morning before they left Cairo, pale skin limned in sunlight and sweat, riding his cock, and he's hit with a slug of lust that almost rocks him in his seat. He has to swallow it down hard as Arthur leans against the cockpit, peering in the open canopy.

"Arthur," Eames says, still battling the twist of lust to keep his tone inflectionless.

"Wish I was going up with you," Arthur says, twisting away to watch the last of the preparations unfold. They're running short of serviceable Kittyhawks; for the first time in what seems like a long time there are more pilots than planes.

Eames' gaze trails down the line of Arthur's throat. Sweat glimmers there in the sunlight. "Yeah," Eames says. "It's gonna be weird without you up there on my six." Arthur turns back and Eames can't help digging, "How far ahead of you in the tally am I now?"

Arthur laughs in a flash of dimples. "We're still doing that?"

"Always." And Eames can't help but smile; for a moment, he thinks, it's going to be okay. They're friends. It's friendship.

Then:

"...Eames," Arthur says in a different tone, a tone that tone that makes Eames' heart skip a beat. It's a tone that is everything that Eames shouldn't feel about Arthur, and his heart bottoms out because he doesn't _want_ Arthur to reciprocate the feelings, he doesn't want Arthur to worry about him the way he worries about Arthur. Because it's not worth it, not with everything that's happening. And now Arthur's going to say something, bare a part of his soul or something and oh god, right now when Eames is about to fly out he can't hear it, he just can't.

"Don't," he says and his voice sounds rough to his ears, tempered by panic. "Please don't say anything."

"I just wanted to--"

"No, not now," Eames snaps and Arthur's mouth thins. He can't help but relent. "After. When--when I get back. We'll talk then. I promise."

Arthur's brow creases and he reaches out and touches Eames' hand where it's curled around the edge of the perspex canopy. "When you get back, then."

There's an understanding in his eyes that Eames does not even remotely deserve and Eames, helpless, shifts his hand from under Arthur's and touches his cheek, right there in the middle of the landing ground. "I promise," he repeats, and means it.

It's not until later, as Eames scrabbles with his parachute harness and oxygen and radio cords before yanking back what's left of the canopy, that he realises he broke his cardinal rule: no talking about after. After the mission (or after the war), three times now there's been talk of _after_. And that's probably why, he thinks bitterly, he's about to parachute from his burning plane right over the advance of Rommel's 21st Panzer Division.

The slip pulls him from the cockpit and he twists clear of the tail as his Kittyhawk goes into a steep dive, falling away as he free falls.

Eames has never had to take to his parachute before, and as he free falls he wonders how low he can be before pulling the cord. They've all heard the stories by now of parachuting pilots being picked out of the air by the enemy; sickening news when it first came through and an utter terror when he finally does pull the cord and the silk billows up and bellies out above him. For a long moment he hangs there free in the air, unmoving, untouched, as the noise from the dogfighting above fills his ears and then the ground is rushing towards him.

He lands and his barely healing leg buckles, sending him pitching forward heavily. A gust of wind smothers Eames in his parachute silk and his head cracks sharply against a rock. Dizzily he flails at the silk, a sudden surge of panic running through him. He can hear voices shouting; he must have hit his head harder than he thought because he can't understand a word they're saying.

Eames only manages to clear the silk from his face to finds himself staring up into the face of a German officer. Oh. Not brain damaged English then. They were speaking German. That... that made more sense.

"For you," the Hauptmann says in heavily accented, triumphant English, "the war is over."

"Oh, for god's sake," Eames groans. "Really? We're doing that?"

Then he passes out.

-

Eames steps out of the car, reaching back to snag his hat and jacket. He pays the cabbie and pauses a moment to light a cigarette, taking a deep drag of smoke into his lungs.

Here, now, after the war, London's not the place he remembers. Of course it's not the place he remembers, he's spent too long away now; first the posting with his squadron to North Africa, then the better part of three years being shuffled from one POW camp to another. This London is a mess of tired people and homeless people; it's not what he recognises anymore and he's about ready to move on.

Which is why he's ended up here, as a civilian once more, to meet with a contact lined up for him by a young American nurse of surprisingly flexible morals. Eames had met her after his POW camp had been liberated, regaling her with tales from the camps he'd been in since he was first taken prisoner and the various cons and tricks he and other prisoners had used in their quest to escape.

Ariadne's interest in his less than legal skills had been obvious and he remembers meeting with her at her behest the night before all the RAF officers were being flown back to England. It was no hardship to meet with a pretty nurse and half a packet of cigarettes later Ariadne had stopped beating around the bush and bluntly asked about his plans after the war. She had, she said delicately, a few friends who were looking for someone with his particular skill set and if he was interested she could organise a meet up. With nothing to lose, he'd said yes.

Eames flicks a glance down at the unfolded square of paper in his fingers, checking the address for the third time in ten minutes. There's a man standing on the steps, his back to Eames as he looks up at the building. Since there's no one else around, Eames assumes this is Ariadne's contact.

There's something about the set of his shoulders and the tilt of his head that makes him think of Arthur.

Arthur.

Eames has thought of Arthur a lot over the years. Too much, maybe. It's ridiculous, Eames knows, that he can't forget him. Arthur was a fling in Cairo, stolen moments on duty and gave Eames a twist in his heart that he could ill afford at the time.

He didn't think of Arthur every day he was incarcerated in various POW camps across Europe. Not every day, no, because sometimes he watched the sky and missed flying, sometimes he thought about London and worried that he didn't miss her; he joined various escape committees in various camps and put his myriad of skills to the test. Forging was easy enough once he was supplied with the right equipment, his skills as a thief tested to acquire the items needed by the committee to get men out under the wire.

But he did think about Arthur, late at night. The feel of his skin, the taste of his mouth; his dimples when he smiled, the sharpness in his eyes when he levelled with Eames in aerial victories. He thought of Arthur when he needed the reminder the most that there were things outside of the wooden walls and the patrolled wires.

When the Americans liberated Oflag IV-C and he could finally return home he stopped thinking about Arthur. It hadn't been that there were too many other things to think about; though there had been he still could have found time. But he'd chosen not to anymore. He chose not to look up what happened to Arthur in the time he'd been a POW, and where he was now. The only thing he'd done was make sure Arthur had survived out the war, and he had. Injured and returned home to recuperate, but he'd survived and that was enough for Eames.

But now, looking at this man on the steps with his hands tucked in his pockets and his hips set _just so_ , Eames is hit with a flood of memories. He takes a step and the man turns as the taxi pulls away from the curb.

Time stops for one heartbeat, two, and then Eames' foot comes down and he's looking up at _Arthur_ , it's actually Arthur there, standing on the steps looking down at him. He doesn't look surprised to see Eames, not the way Eames is to see him.

Eames supposes he would have been forewarned if he hadn't airily brushed Ariadne off, trusting her judgement.

Then Arthur's coming down the steps towards him. He stops in front of Eames, closer than he needs to be and this time Eames' heart really does skip a beat. He looks up at Arthur, standing on the step above his and realises he was wrong. He was wrong not to think of Arthur more, not to look him up as soon as he could. He should have come looking for this man as soon as he could.

"You promised we'd talk when you got back," is the first thing Arthur says to him after all these years. His tone isn't angry like Eames had expected it to be. It's tentative, like he doesn't know the reception he's going to get from Eames, like he maybe thinks he's the one who should apologise for being so stupid.

For a moment Eames can't speak and he remembers the flush and the skip in his heart like it was only yesterday. "I got a little delayed," he eventually says. "There was this German fellow who made pressing requirements on my time. You might have heard of him, went by the name Hitler."

He reaches out before he realises what he's doing, his hand stopping only inches from Arthur's arm. "But I've got time," he says, the rough rasp of his voice almost unfamiliar to his ears, "now, for you, Arthur. I've got all the time in the world."

Arthur glances down at Eames' hand, still hovering, then back up at Eames' face. In his eyes Eames sees the same understanding that he'd seen when Arthur perched on the wing of Eames' Kittyhawk in El Alamein.

Then Arthur shifts and he's warm where Eames' fingers curl around his arm.

And when he smiles it's bright like everything Eames remembers.


End file.
